


Plummet Damage

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Khan’s banished to certain death, except that Keenser’s good to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The second he kicks the door open, he wishes he hadn’t.

The wind rushes in, and seeing it crowded against the frost-covered window didn’t at all prepare him for the real thing. The force of the blast knocks Khan’s hood right off his head, his disheveled bangs flying into his face and his eyes slamming shut against the violent sting that is the air of Delta Vega. It instantly swamps his face in a mask of powdery snow, wafting from so many directions that it’s impossible to tell if it’s snowing or a snowstorm or just the ground cover being kicked up with the wind. Khan turns away from the open front of the pod and tries to shield his face with his elbow, but the black cloak he wears isn’t at all adequate for this atmosphere. There are no changes of clothing in the pod, no more supplies, not even rations. He was banished here as a convenient alternative to death, but clearly, it isn’t that different. 

Khan is an augment and _better than this_ , and he growls in the back of his throat and forces himself to shove the door open the rest of the way. The prickling air around him hits home like a wall, but Khan is strong, and he pushes through it: shoves his leg out of the cramped interior and into a quicksand pit of white. His boot sinks down and swallows him up, and when he pushes the other foot next to it, he’s careful with the weight he applies. He has no intention of dying here, however much the planet seems to want him to. 

Climbing out of the pod is a nightmare in itself. Khan hasn’t eaten since his trial, hasn’t had anything to drink, and isn’t stupid enough to eat alien snow. He doesn’t have anything even vaguely resembling a tricorder on him; he’s been stripped and searched so thoroughly that he can still feel the bruises of the court-appointed hands. Still, he didn’t live so long just to die on a barren wreck of a planet in the middle of nowhere, and he doggedly tells himself that, somehow, he’ll _survive._

Leaving the pod is a painful thing. It’s the only work of technology as far as he can see, the only protection against the harsh wind, but without food and water, he’d die in it. Even he doesn’t have the strength to take it with him. He presses on, knowing that he’ll have to find a cave or something of the sort to offer shelter. Eventually, he’ll have to risk a drink from one place or another. He’ll need to find something to eat. Perhaps there are natives on the planet, which he could, undoubtedly, manipulate to his advantage, but he doubts Starfleet would be so naïve. They sent him here to die in a way that wouldn’t directly leave blood on their hands. He has no doubts of that.

He trudges through the barren landscape, sinking to the knee on each step, and holds his cloak tightly around him. It’s not enough. The air is thin and difficult to take, and after a few steps, his lungs are already crying in protest. He can feel the snow clinging to his hair and eyebrows and lips and nose and every part of him, and he can see that his hands are turning blue, knuckles nearly frozen into place around his clothes. It’s difficult to see. It hurts. The snow that swirls so wildly around him shrouds almost everything—just his luck to land in a blizzard.

There might be mountains ahead. Their shape is hazy through the mist, and the white sky almost blends in with them, the rocks so covered that the few spots of grey he can make out may as well be an illusion. But Khan trudges on, determined to live, no matter the cost. He may have been banished, but his crew is still sleeping, he thinks, somewhere in that vast monstrosity of Starfleet. It will likely take him a long, long time to garner any sort of power to save them again. It still pains him that his last position, so very close, got him nowhere, even after all his meticulous efforts. But there’s no use dwelling on that now; this world is painful enough. 

One step after another, Khan presses on, reminding himself that he’s _superior_ ; he’s an augment and he’s built for this, for surviving where any other would die, for pressing on long after his bones and flesh are screaming for him to stop. Once, he contemplates returning to the pod to wait out the storm, but quickly dismisses the idea—there’s no guarantee it’ll end before he withers of malnutrition or is found, helplessly trapped, by vicious wildlife. The last time Khan lay in waiting for his fate, he awoke to Marcus’ grinning face. 

He’ll take his chances this time. It’s a great effort to lift his leg for each step, a greater to not topple over each time it sinks into the snow. When he squints at the mountain through the blinding whiteness, he can’t tell if he’s getting any closer. 

Then he hears a wailing roar, piercing through the shriek of the wind, and anyone else might not have been able to decipher it, but Khan can. Something’s _out there_ , and he can’t see a thing, and there’s nowhere to hide. He tries to push himself faster, but he’s already at his limits. There might be a rocky hill a dozen meters away, or there might be a pit in the snow with deceptive shadows. 

The scream echoes again, unlike anything Khan’s ever heard before. He knows the terrors of space are nothing like the horrors of war he grew up facing. He takes another step, and his head spins; the ground seems to be shaking beneath him. He just barely manages to keep from toppling over, and his breath is abruptly knocked out of him—he’s wrenched back by the stomach—his head shoots down, chin banging his chest, eyes widening at the thick coils that have wrapped around his middle. Lumpy pink tendrils have him, some terrible, engorged version of a too-long tongue, and Khan curses himself for not hearing the thing coming closer, not reacting in time. He has no weapons and instinctively goes for his fists, pounding at the appendage with the wild fervor of a cornered bear. When the next roar comes, a blast of hot air pours over him from behind, bringing a stench so fowl that Khan nearly passes out. Before he can do anymore, he’s dragged off his feet, too fast and hard for his superior reflexes to do anything about it.

The next few seconds are a torturous blur. Khan is dimly aware that he’s about to die, but he’s too busy _fighting_ to dwell on it—he yanks at the bindings around his waist that he’s sure are bringing him closer to the creature’s mouth. Pulled high into the air, Khan is suspended above a massive red blob with too many legs and a mouth with more teeth than he has bones. He gets only the briefest flash of its throat—a gaping abyss sure to kill him on impact—and then his world spins again. 

He’s thrown into the air. He turns head over heels too many times to catch himself properly, and a split second later, he slams into a sheet of ice, his shoulder and knee making a sickening crunch on impact; he’s sure he’s broken them both. He topples onto his back and slides a few centimeters, starts to sink, and he can hear the creature’s deafening wail, then a huge thunk that makes the ground shake all around him, then silence. Khan’s blood is pounding in his ears, his mouth gulping great chunks of burning, ice-cold air. 

He realizes too late that his head was hit in the fall. Darkness swirls around his vision, and he claws to escape, but there isn’t any use. He’s falling deeper and deeper, and all his panicked mind can think is that he doesn’t want to die, not like this. He’s only dimly aware of small hands touching his chest, and unconsciousness swallows him whole.


	2. ~

Khan’s consciousness is a fleeting, infuriatingly impalpable thing, that flitters twice in and out. Both times, he’s dimly aware of a deep warmth in his bones and a hard, metallic floor beneath him, and an ache in his body that his natural healing abilities are struggling to patch together. Unready to sustain him yet, his body forces his mind back, and he dips into a restless version of ‘sleep.’

On the third time he wakes, terror seizes him, the memory of Marcus prickling in his throat. In his tumultuous life, he’s only either woken of his own accord by his own internal clock with his day’s plans all set out for him, or he’s woken at the whims of another, strapped down and set to be tortured. He jerks his hands on instinct, intermittently relieved when they come loose of the blanket. They’re numb, having fallen asleep beneath his weight, but they aren’t shackled, and that’s something. He twitches his neck, and his hood topples off his face; there is no collar around his throat. 

But he’s lying on his side on the floor, bundled in thick, stifling fabric. He’s uncomfortable and stiff and feels as though he’s taken a severe beating, one thorough enough to require more than the usual hour or two to stitch himself back together. The memory of the red beast is hazy in his head, and he doesn’t know how long ago that was, but it doesn’t matter. He has to deal with his circumstances now. He stretches like a cat, his sore legs kicking out of the blanket and into the stale air. He rolls onto his back and grunts at the impact; the natural curve of his spine makes his broad shoulders dig into the metal. He blinks up at the dry ceiling, obscured in darkness and browns and greys. 

Then he rolls his head back to the side, blinking at the sharpness of the firelight. It flickers in a primal dance and protects that side of him, heats his skin through his cloak, though the other sides of his limbs that are now outside the blanket grow cold fast. To his groggy, still-healing head, the fire is hard to look away from; there’s safety in its shelter. 

But Khan doesn’t waste time on the sentimental when survival’s at stake, and he looks past the fire to his saviour/captor. The wavering light washes over greenish-grey grooves and ridges, and it takes him a moment to recognize the living creature against the rest of the mechanical background. He has to search his memory banks, honed far past his own experiences like a normal human’s might’ve been limited to. A Roylan, he surmises quickly. Few species look like that: carved from rock, shorter than most, only vaguely humanoid with tiny, beady eyes that sit in pools of black. A sigh escapes Khan’s chest, some of the tightness leaving. A Roylan.

He thinks he could take a Roylan.

He’s taller, stronger. Or is when he’s healthy. He’s faster, better. His eyes dart around behind the man seated across from him, but the rest of the room—little and boxy and barren—is mostly swamped in shadows. Nothing of interest. He can’t hear any other sets of breath over the crackle of the fire; he thinks they’re alone. But he isn’t bound. Surely he isn’t a prisoner. Not again.

He wets his dry lips with his cracked tongue and rasps, “What do you want from me?” Because everybody wants _something_ , and he’s too tired for games with a simplistic species. The Roylan just stares at him, and Khan shifts against the floor. He lifts up on his elbows, wanting to at least push the blanket under him—he didn’t have a blanket before; did the Roylan provide it? It’s hard to untangle it from his own clothes with how weak he is. But Khan pushes that thought aside; he’s never _weak._ ...Just... malnourished and battered. 

As Khan shuffles onto the makeshift mattress, the Roylan stands up and takes a step towards him, but Khan’s head snaps around, growling through his teeth. The posturing would be obvious to any living creature, and the Roylan stops in its tracks. It lowers slowly back to the crate it had been sitting on, one that Khan will examine later for clues. For now, he settles onto his bunk, keeping a wary eye on the Roylan’s now moving hands, picking something up from the floor. 

The Roylan holds out a canister and gestures forward: an offer of a drink.

Khan isn’t stupid enough to take drinks from strangers, and he isn’t desperate enough yet to forget that. He looks away, and the Roylan makes a shrugging motion before downing the liquid himself. Khan watches intently, searching his mind for any immunities Roylans have that humans wouldn’t. Although, of course, Khan isn’t really _human_.

Khan rephrases his earlier question and asks, “Why did you take me here?”

The Roylan finishes drinking, caps the bottle, and slips it into a pocket. His clothes are dingy and oiled-stained: those of someone hands-on who works often with mechanics. Finally, the Roylan tells him in a low, gravelly voice, “Cold outside.” Then he makes the shrugging motion again, and Khan frowns. 

He knows that much. Without the fire and layered clothing, it would be cold in here too. But it’s not as bad as the planet’s surface. Khan toys with uttering gratitude; forming a polite relationship, even a hollow one, with someone local, could come in handy. But Khan finds the words too foreign to him, and he judges the impact it would have on the Roylan wouldn’t be worth it. 

So instead, he focuses on himself. The Roylan doesn’t seem to be a threat. That makes determining the surroundings first priority. The first effort to push himself up just makes Khan hiss in pain, collapsing back to the floor, but on the next try, sheer willpower gets him up. He pushes to sit and sucks in air, prickling and stagnant. He’ll have to drink eventually. After he determines his whereabouts. He gets to his feet slowly, and his knees groan in protest; the bone in his left side feels unstable, like a crack’s shot down it. Khan ignores the pain and surveys the room: still a small, metallic box. 

He takes a step around the fire, then another, then passes the Roylan, ears perked to trace its movements. The end twists into a corridor, and a mounted plaque on the wall sporting evacuation instructions gives him his first clue; it’s written in Federation Standard. From this one bunker, Khan’s best bet would be a Federation outpost. He can’t imagine anything on such a desolate world being for social or entertainment purposes. The design of the room is function-only. Khan nears a wall panel with half the wires coming out, and only his superior eyes let him tell it’s even a computer screen at all, now that he’s closer. He half expects the Roylan to stop him. When he taps the power button and nothing happens beyond one of the frayed wires sparking, he knows why. It’s in as much disrepair as everything looks. 

Khan glances over his shoulder and half asks, half demands, “Are there others here?”

The Roylan shakes his head—what Khan assumes to be either a universal or adapted ‘no.’ He won’t believe it until he’s confirmed it himself, of course, but the thought is vaguely comforting. One little Roylan, he can handle. Under Khan’s gaze, the Roylan lifts the liquid canister again. Khan’s sandpaper throat wants to rush to it, but he doesn’t move. 

This place is dingy. The technology looks outdated. The physical fire says as much. This place clearly isn’t used often. There’s the possibility it’s just this one room that’s so ruined, but Starfleet tends to be more thorough than that. The highest probability is that the Roylan is correct. Perhaps he has little to no communication with his Federation overlords. Perhaps he doesn’t know who Khan is, or, more likely in his demeanor, he wouldn’t care either way. But then, if he knew what Khan was capable of, surely Khan would be strapped securely to the floor.

Instead, Khan’s free to circle the room, only to stumble again when he applies too much pressure to his knee. He tries to steady himself but fails; his body doesn’t have the strength to support the moves he tries. Instead, he topples towards the floor, crumbling in his own weight. His bangs fall into his eyes and stick to his forehead with his feverish sweat, his skin heating as his upper body nears the fire. His shoulders are caught in rough, textured hands before he hits the floor, and the Roylan cradles his head, helping him slink down. Shame twists Khan’s gut, but he lets himself be steadied.

He lets the Roylan brush his hair from his eyes, and he lets the Roylan help untangle his legs, the perhaps-broken one pinned under the other. 

When the Roylan says, “Drink,” Khan opens his mouth, too tired to fight.

The bitter alcohol burns like the fire. Maybe he’ll be better in the morning.


	3. ~

Khan lets himself be stripped down, and the rising waves of heat off the bath make the air more bearable. The ‘bath’ is really more a circular groove in the flooring filled with near-boiling water: more makeshift necessities adapted from failing technology. Khan’s limbs are too stiff to pry the cloak from his shoulders, the turtleneck over his head, the frayed remnants of his pants on his own—now that he’s steady enough to really _look_ , he can see where the blood’s glued it to his skin. 

The cuts below them are mostly healed, but there’s still a ways to go. The Roylan helps him over the brim, and Khan sinks into the water, nearly bubbling, nearly opaque, stifling and _wonderful_. It would be too hot for a normal human, but there’s little about Khan that’s normal. 

He leans back against the metallic brim, carved like tiles—maybe this was meant to be a washroom, after all. There’s a large cylinder in the corner sporting branching pipes—the basin where this water came from, he assumes. There’s a panel at the bottom he could probably pry away to drain it, but he doesn’t want to think of ending this for a long, long time. The lap of the smooth surface around his shoulders is something akin to paradise, such a _relief_ after nothing but more struggle. Khan lets out a breath and slumps back against the edge, body seated on a ledge along the perimeter. The Roylan bustles off, and Khan pays him no mind. Khan lifts water in his cupped hands and splashes it along the contours of his face; it feels like the dirt he’s reaching is more from the trial than the planet. 

He could use cleansing. He spreads his legs and lets his muscles relax, content to know he’s still alert enough should he need to be. Should the Roylan be lying, should more come rushing in. His mind automatically pours over other dangers, and he briefly compares the rounded pool to a pot, himself to food. Then he snorts at the idea. A Roylan, a species that eats very little and very small, would take years to finish a man like Khan. Besides, he doubts they enjoy boiled meat. 

When the Roylan wanders back, it’s holding an assortment of bottles, rusty, recycled things, guaranteed not to hold their original contents. The Roylan sets them along the brim, while Khan runs wet fingers back through his hair. He isn’t particularly bothered by his nakedness. He was built to perfection and has no physical ‘flaws,’ and even if he did, he doubts he’d be insecure. The Roylan doesn’t eye him like the proverbial slice of meat anyway— _not like Marcus did._

Still, it leaves him curious. Despite being stripped and given a bath, clearly the Roylan didn’t rescue him for sex. The idea that the Roylan would rescue him for _no reason_ still isn’t something he can believe. He watches the Roylan choose a bottle with mild interest, eyebrow lifting as it’s held out to him.

“Soap,” the Roylan says. Khan plucks the balm-shaped canister from his hand and risks detaching the lid, finding, indeed, a crude little soap bar, shriveled and worn. It takes him back to his days before sonic-everything. He looks at the Roylan and nods his acceptance, and the Roylan sits back, legs crossed. Khan doesn’t know the alien anatomy enough to be able to tell if his pants are baggy or just conforming to the grooves of rock-strewn legs. 

His own skin is smooth and soft and peach, turning from frozen yellow-blue to red where the hot water touches him. His situation is too grave to bother with idealized sanitation, to mourn luxuries; he dips the used soap bar under the water and rubs it to let it foam in his hand. Then he runs it along his arm, half expecting the suds to be acid. 

They’re not, and they cut through the grime, and Khan still doesn’t say ‘thank you.’ Instead, he ponders, “What’s your name?” 

The Roylan seems to hesitate. Perhaps he’s been alone too long to say his own name much, never having the early fame that Khan did. Perhaps he’s just slow by nature, or perhaps he doesn’t want to give it. Eventually, he grunts, “Keenser,” and at first, it just sounds like a high-pitched noise. 

Khan deciphers it into syllables and repeats, “Keenser.” When he isn’t corrected, he says, “Khan.” He keeps his eyes strategically on his own body, on the trail of soap, but in his peripherals, the Roylan—Keenser—nods. They have an understanding, he thinks, which is more than he can say for he and most people.

Keenser could leave but doesn’t. When Khan finishes running the soap along as much of his body as he cares to bother with at the moment, (it doesn’t lather well and it stings along the crack that still creeps up his leg) he drops it back into the tin, and Keenser hands him a new canister. This turns out to be a translucent purple gel, and Keenser asks, “Hair?” It’s the first time his voice has had a questioning inflection to it, and Khan eyes Keenser more closely to confirm his initial assessment; the Roylan has no hair, not on any part of him. 

But Khan does, and he scoops out some of the cool gel with his fingers, analyzing from the consistency and texture that it’s a shampoo-conditioner mix, more common in this time. He threads it into his hair and turns back to the water, his reflection a barely-there flicker along the rippling surface. He thinks he must look worse for wear, but judging by Keenser’s treatment of him, he’ll be pristine again by the time his leg’s healed. 

He lets the new soap sink into his hair before he washes it away. He stretches his arm around the tub’s brim, leaning his head back, while the steam wavers up to his chin and mingles sweat in with the bathwater. The blood’s already been scrubbed away, not enough to make the water much more murky, and the low-level ceiling light dulls everything anyway. Keenser says nothing, does nothing, until a few minutes into Khan’s relaxation, when he seems to purr. An odd growling sound culminates in his chest, and Khan glances over at it, but can’t tell from the Roylan’s blank expression what it means. Maybe it’s his granite stomach rumbling. Maybe it’s similar to a feline situation, and watching Khan stretch out naked is akin to being petted. 

It doesn’t seem to dictate any of Keenser’s actions, so it doesn’t matter. Khan lets it rumble in the background like the far-off creep of compressed air through pipes and other creaks of an abandoned station. Eventually, he brings his cupped hands back up with water, and he washes the soap from his hair. He’s unwilling to dunk underneath; he doesn’t want to have his senses muffled even for the briefest moment, not yet. He’s a dichotomy of leisure and caution. He lingers in the bath longer than necessary, purely because it’s pleasant, and there’s so little _pleasant_ in Khan’s life, then or now.

When he climbs from the water, the other bottles Keenser brought never used, Keenser brings him a plain towel, entirely utilitarian, stained in a few places. It looks more for oil spills than human bodies, but Khan uses it to dry himself off anyway, and while he does, Keenser asks, “Better?”

Khan decides, “Peripherally.” It’s only a small concession, but the alien nods again as though he understands. 

There is no change of clothes. If this is a Federation outpost, he can probably synthesize one, should he be able to find a working Synthesizer. For now, he tugs into the rags of the frost-crusted outfit he was banished in, and he wraps his coat tight around himself again; in the absence of the hot water, it’s chilling. Keenser turns and walks for the door of the little room, and Khan, unwilling to relinquish his native guide just yet, follows. 

They walk down a series of too-long corridors with various open panels and oil leaking down the side of one corner. They come to a bigger room with many flickering terminals, some clearly mid-repair, others clearly beyond salvation. Keenser finds a barrel behind one and rolls it out with several grunts, which entice Khan to join and help. It’s a heavy thing, and though he knows his own superior strength, he’s surprised at Keenser’s. But then, Roylans are cut from stone. 

The barrel contains a mass of dried fruit, similar aesthetically to dates. Khan waits for Keenser to eat one before he does, and he finds it bitter but edible. 

They sit down on the hard flower, and they eat, Khan three times as much. He recognizes the technology as Starfleet, and he recognizes the tools scattered about as an engineer’s. Keenser says the most he has yet: “This world destroys everyone.”

Khan replies simply, “I can handle it.”

And Keenser doesn’t answer.


	4. ~

The night’s colder, even in the depth of the compound, wrapped up in as many blankets as there are. It’s a small bunker with only one usable mattress, the other full of holes and propped against the wall, looking as though it’s been chewed by rats the size of dogs. The ‘bed’ is more than large enough for both of them, and Khan isn’t stupid; he knows he’ll need the body heat. 

Well, he won’t _need_ it, but he doesn’t plan to wake up stiffer-boned than he started, frosted into place with exacerbated wounds. He’s decided that if Keenser wanted him dead, it would’ve happened by now. There’re three blankets. They each take one, and the other drapes across them. 

A broken panel by the door glows a pale blue: the only thing keeping the room from being pitch black. Khan lies in the relative darkness on his side, facing away from Keenser, a few centimeters between them. Keenser’s become something of a furnace, and Khan’s back is thankful for the reprieve, even without full contact. 

Khan keeps his senses alert even when his eyes are closed, when he’s trying to rest, knowing his body needs it. He’s always been a light sleeper; he’ll wake at the first sign of anything, let alone trouble. But he lies awake too long anyway and wonders. 

He wonders how much Khan knows about him and if it’s possible Keenser knows nothing at all. How could he not care? Tomorrow, Khan’s going to find a terminal to use. 

Maybe he’ll get up early. He sets his internal clock to note it—another special gift of his—and supposes he’ll creep silently from their bed, find a functioning terminal and pour over everything he can. He’ll learn what this place is and everything he can about Keenser from his service record to his favourite food. Khan will research the best possible mode of transportation off this godforsaken rock—if it’s a Federation outpost, there must at least be shuttles to steal—and he’ll find another, better place to stay until he can amass the resources necessary to mount another rescue attempt. He’ll research nearby planets and vessels and the technology level this outpost has to offer. He’ll formulate a plan and set it in motion, and he’ll be gone in no more than a week.

He’ll pick somewhere warm and sunny. He shifts his legs and rolls onto his other side, staring at the outline of Keenser’s small and uneven back. Keenser’s utterly still, like he isn’t even breathing. Maybe it’s a Roylan trait. Khan will research Roylans too: everything the databanks can give him.

He’ll cover all his tracks and delete all records of his computer use, and the peaceful, hospitable alien who’s cleaned him and fed him and pulled him from the snow will be alone again: the best mercy from the company of Khan Noonien Singh. 

Reassuring himself helps him sleep better. He’s halfway into darkness before Keenser resumes the purring sound of earlier: perhaps a Roylan snore. Khan follows into sleep anyway, and for all his reservations, he feels safer than he has in a long time.


	5. ~

Khan wakes earlier than he means to, jarred by the ever-so-slight tilt of the mattress, enough to make its old springs groan. Khan’s eyes open to slits on instinct, sliding through the dark, but he’s rolled away in his sleep. The mattress creaks, and small feet hit the floor. Khan can feel when Keenser’s weight leaves.

Khan sees when the shape of Keenser moves around to his side, bustling over to a set of drawers against the wall that look more like storage units than something for clothes. Keenser is moving slowly, cautiously, clearly trying not to wake Khan, either to be kind or to be sly; Khan can’t decipher which. He watches Keenser slowly draw open the bottom rung and pull out a fresh set of loose pants and an oversized shirt. He changes stoutly and efficiently: none of the bumbling arches of humans: just the right-angle bending to push down pants, to pull on new pants, the straight-backed movement of removing a shirt and replacing a new one. It’s too dark to make out any details, to catch each independent ridge, but Khan’s half-shut eyes record all the generalities. Keenser’s body is a mystery to him, as any new alien’s is bound to be. 

When Keenser is redressed, he tilts his head to the side. He scratches behind the crown of his head, then glances towards the bed, where Khan’s eyes shut too quickly to be caught. 

Keenser grunts, “Sleep in?” Khan doesn’t answer. 

Khan continues pretending to sleep, hears no movement, waits, and Keenser must be waiting too. Finally, Khan opens his eyes, because it’s obvious Keenser must know that he’s awake despite his pretense, and Keenser is either determined to prove that or simply overly polite and patient. Khan is comfortable with neither, but he faces the accusation of the truth with his admission of it, and he stares at the beady holes of Keenser’s sockets. 

He pushes himself up on one elbow, ready to rise, and answers belatedly, “That won’t be necessary.” He allows a deep breath just short of a yawn and pulls the blankets tight around him as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. They feel better than yesterday, and he imagines that if he rolled up the pant leg of the broken side, he’d find the skin mended back to good as new. Bundled but no less commanding, he stares at Keenser as if to demand: _what now?_

Keenser says, “Work.”

Khan lifts an eyebrow, expression uninterested in that. He’s through labouring for someone else, morale debts or no. Bluntly, he asks, “You want me to work for you?”

But Keenser shakes his head and clarifies. “I work.”

So Khan nods, not betraying that he ever thought otherwise. Of course Keenser must have something to do around here; Khan can think of half a dozen jobs alone worth of repairs in the few rooms he’s seen. Coupled with the Starfleet assumption, it only makes sense. Half the work on little-used outposts is maintenance. There can’t be much in the way of traffic here, or one man wouldn’t be enough. 

That one man bobs his head and leaves for the door. Khan clings to the edges of the blanket and debates bringing it with him but ultimately feels too childish. He lets it drop from his body and lifts to his feet, stretching subtly as he moves. He tests all of his limbs and joints and swiftly catches up to Keenser, the cold already creeping back into him. He doesn’t admit it aloud. He keeps behind Keenser as they walk through the halls, because it’s never wise to leave your back or side exposed to unknowns. However unlikely an attack is, his instincts prevail. 

They stop at a side room that can’t hold Keenser’s main ‘job’; there’s nothing important in it. Just a few barrels and boxes and a Synthesizer that looks like it’s been dissected beyond repair. Khan expects them to extract food from somewhere, treat this place like a pit stop and then move on, but Keenser heads to the table with the Synthesizer and sits down on the floor. He settles onto his back and disappears into the shadows, while Khan wanders closer and wonders what he’s supposed to do with his time. 

Maybe he should go searching for a shuttle or working terminal on his own. His stomach growls in protest, but he doesn’t acknowledge it; he isn’t going to let a little thing like hunger determine his plans. 

Ultimately, it’s the unfamiliarity that holds him. He thinks he has some time here, and he doesn’t want to waste his strength wandering foreign halls when he has a perfectly willing guide. He’s curious, anyway, though he doesn’t bother to kneel down to see what Keenser’s doing. From the grunting and shifting wires sounds and the clacking of metal together, it’s obviously a repair. Khan surmises that if Keenser has any brain cells at all, it won’t be more than a patch job. Surely there are more important things to deal with, and any good engineer knows when to prioritize. 

Sure enough, Keenser withdraws a few minutes later. Khan has sat down on a barrel while waiting, and he watches Keenser’s back pull open the middle drawer of the desk and sort through its contents. He then draws out a Synthesizer chip and inserts it into the machine, letting it quake and whine as it strains to work through his adhesive measures. 

A lumpy grey thing forms in its opening, lined in uneven mottles of fur. Keenser waits until all the flickering lights are gone and the material’s completely solid, and then he pulls it out and turns, holding it up.

The bundle unfurls into a thick mass of clothing, longer than Keenser is tall. He holds it up to try and stop it from dragging on the floor, but that’s inevitable. Khan’s eyes sweep over it: a crude but adequate winter coat. Khan’s frozen instincts scream to grab it and run, but judging from the size, he has an idea who it’s for. He’s just not used to... gifts.

Not without strings attached, anyway.

But Keenser tosses it towards him, and he catches it and finally drawls, “Thank you.” He slides off the barrel and slips his arms through the sleeves, wrapping it tight around himself and sealing the magnetic clasps. It isn’t that different from his normal choice of black trenches, though it’s uglier and better insulated. The fur-lined hood is a relief to his neck. The whole thing is a relief to his skin. 

Keenser doesn’t bother to admire his handiwork, just sets in on one of the crates atop a stack of two more. He pulls out two sealed packages that Khan recognizes immediately as Starfleet rations, and he takes them from Keenser’s outstretched hand. They turn out to both be protein squares, the poor taste of which is neither here nor there to a pragmatic man like Khan with no other options. He eats them as they leave the small room, Keenser clearly not ready to eat yet. Khan eats anyway and memorizes the location of food supplies relative to the room they slept in, should he wish to secure his own in the future. While Keenser is easily the finest host Khan’s ever had—which isn’t saying much—he doesn’t have any wish to rely on the Roylan or anyone else for anything whatsoever when he doesn’t have to. 

With a Starfleet wrapper in his hand, Khan asks, “How much contact do you have with Starfleet?”

Keenser grunts, “Rare,” and stops in the entrance of a large work bay, something like an actual ship dock. The place is maybe ten times larger than the little room they slept in, with ceiling lights that flicker in some places and are burnt out in others. There’s a small Starfleet shuttle off in the corner, massively damaged and obviously in need of repairs, and a host of other mechanical chunks and falling-apart technology scattered about. There’s a crowd of desks near the middle with a host of computers, and Keenser strolls there first, Khan following. There’s a bin near one of them labeled for recycling, and Khan drops his ration wrappers in there.

Keenser bypasses all of the computers and takes a seat on the floor, pulling a knot of wires into his lap and setting to untangle them. It’s obvious that keeping old technology functioning in a terrible environment is Keenser’s main work, and Khan, having no particular interest in the efficiency of the outpost, stares at the shuttle instead. 

He weighs his options and decides to keep relations good for now, to work up trust and establish an escape route later. So he sits down next to Keenser, crosses his legs, and pulls a muddled bunch into his lap. Fingers pushing out of the safety of his sleeves, Khan begins separating wires. Keenser makes a short grunting noise that might be Roylan for gratitude, because he doesn’t pull them back. 

When they’re done, there’s a board to plug them into, and Khan works with rewiring while Keenser pries out old fused circuits that need to be replaced. What the board is for doesn’t really matter, not to Khan. The work is steady, easy, not an obligation, and really, all there is to do. Keenser, at least, is good company, in that he’s quiet and clean and smells vaguely like lavender and doesn’t bother Khan in the slightest, even in the small, barely detectible ways of most ‘inferior’ beings. 

Together, they manage to fix it in very little time. When it’s done, Khan lets Keenser take the board gently from his grasp, making a pleased, pleasant purring sound. Keenser fits the board into the back of one of the open consoles, hooking it up quickly. When that’s done too, he pats his hands off on his pants and looks up at Khan, the little stalks of his eyes holding extraordinary depth. 

Khan calmly waits to find out what’s next. There’s a crate of isolinear chips with a tradestamp on it, sporting the numbers for two Starfleet destinations, one it came from and one it’s to be shipped to. The date on it shouldn’t come for another several months, assuming the date stamp is in standard time and this planet doesn’t have a separate system. Here, Keenser sorts through for those that’ve been damaged—the crate’s dented on one side, and the edge is crusted where the frost got through. Khan helps him pluck out the few chips that can be salvaged, and then they repackage it into one of the many empty trade containers lined along the walls. While Keenser inputs the information onto the new datachip affixed to the far smaller crate, Khan glances at the shuttle again and wonders. 

There isn’t as much here of high priority as he thought. There’s nothing that looks hazardous or vital or helpful in anyway: just odds and ends and the backwater trash of the galaxy. As Keenser finishes on the crate, Khan moves towards the shuttle, every step calculated.

But Keenser makes no move or word to stop him, so Khan only continues, until he’s halfway there and stops, turning to glance back. He asks, “May I take a look at your shuttle?”

Keenser looks up at him and makes absolutely no movement, just as usual, but for some reason, Khan still thinks he’s being studied. 

He must pass, because Keenser makes a nodding gesture and hobbles off to the next project. He heads across the bay, ends up on the other side, and when his back is turned, Khan is left with the odd and curious sensation of feeling mildly abandoned. A far lesser shade of every time he’s alone again, but, he reminds himself, since the moment he was tucked into that pod, he’s been alone in all the ways that count. 

The shuttle is in no position to fly. Even a shallow, purely aesthetic circle of the outside says as much. On one side, a panel near the bottom’s been ripped out and is attached by a large tube to a nearby console, which Khan observes too. He has yet to see a working terminal that would be likely to have the usual Starfleet databanks, and this, too, seems to be a simple, independent workstation. Khan goes in for a second set of observations, more in depth this time, and finds himself running his fingers along the smooth metal that’s been welded back together, the rust that’s been scraped off, and the open panels that’ve been carefully cleaned and rewired.

He can tell with certainty that this shuttle came in very, very badly damaged, and someone, probably Keenser, is nursing it back to health. The work is impressive, and Khan finds himself more impressed with Keenser’s clear overall engineering skills than the singular job itself. But then, Khan’s always been careful to keep an eye on individuals’ talents. 

Keenser, Khan imagines, as he climbs into the smoothed-out cockpit with a delicate balance of rewiring across the dashboard, would be a valuable asset to anyone. 

And Starfleet’s left him here, on a useless little outpost, all alone. Khan snorts to himself; he’s never been impressed with how Starfleet manages its more talented members. 

He takes a seat in the pilot’s chair and begins making mental notes over all the repairs that must be done before the craft is flyable; his weeklong goal might be surprisingly attainable.


	6. ~

They don’t stop working until it’s very late, signified by the one working clock mounted on the desk cluster, flashing red numbers in twenty-four-hour time. There are no windows in the cargo bay, which is just as well, as the cold is already barely tolerable. By the time he finds Keenser in the doorway of the shuttle, Khan’s old wounds have all reopened; his bones are back to being too sore for an augment and his black coat is smudged with browns: dirt, rust, and oil. He crawls out of the back compartment he was hunched in, rechecking the fuel induction for a malfunction that only exists on half the internal sensors half the time. He can feel his bangs stuck to his face again and shoves them back, aware he’s leaving a different smudge of grime. He’s sweating a storm, even though it’s chilling. He experiences an unpleasant split second of dizziness when he first sits up but doggedly ignores it. 

Keenser steps back for him to have room to clamber out of the shuttle, accidentally knocking a sonic screwdriver to the floor. He leaves it where it is and asks Keenser, “Finished?” For the day, anyway. Keenser’s lack of response seems to indicate a ‘yes.’

Keenser’s done a good many things today. At first, Khan kept track, leaving the shuttle every so often to keep tabs on the one other man in his new world. But that quickly proved pointless, and Khan stopped wasting the time.

They head back to the same store room as before, and when they sit down, it’s tucked into a little alcove of stacked boxes, like a makeshift fort. It reminds Khan of the childhood he never had—of stories from others. He wonders vaguely if young Roylans build fake, useless shelters to ‘hide’ from their guardians in. If Keenser ever did, his fort was probably more of a castle, assuming he used digitally equipped crates instead of old-fashioned cardboard boxes. Khan understands the idea, even if he doesn’t condone the futility of the function. 

There’s a small, flat box in arms reach that opens to provide something of a fire pit, but wired just for that. Its sparks its own fire easily and ignites the kindling Keenser’s gathered from another barrel, safe in the confines of the kit while they sit amidst the rest. They keep the door open lest they suffocate to death, or at least, Khan consciously does so; he isn’t going to place any stock in the air ducts. 

There’s a blanket in another kit. They drape it over themselves, stretched between them, forcing them to sit closer than Khan would get to most. They could go to bed to eat, he supposes, but Keenser’s calling the shots, and maybe there’re just more flammable things in the bedroom, or even worse ventilation; Khan doesn’t know, and Khan doesn’t care. Keenser fishes more dates out of a barrel for himself and more rations for Khan: more tasteless squares that go down easier with a date pressed into the top. 

They eat in silence and watch the flames dance, while Khan contemplates a litany of questions and Keenser does who-knows-what. Keenser eats slowly in little nibbles and a rocky crunching sound, and his ridges almost glow and shine with the flames. 

He’s warm, undeniably warm, and Khan, already sitting close, doesn’t stop himself from shifting closer, so their crossed legs are touching and their sides are scant centimeters apart. The heat that radiates off Keenser’s little body is palpable, even through the thick coat. Khan wonders how badly he smells to Keenser after a hard day’s work; Keenser smells no worse than before. Khan wonders what Keenser would do if he, assuming he doesn’t already know, discovered Khan’s past. Khan wonders where Royla’s true loyalties lie; many Federation citizens are not exactly Federation-friendly. Khan wonders if Keenser requested this assignment or fought it or something in between. He wonders if Roylans ever experimented with genetic engineering, if they have sex, how they would, what else they do that Khan, as a human, wouldn’t be able to conceive of. He wonders what Keenser’s ancestors were up to three hundred years ago, and then he wonders how old Keenser is. 

He doesn’t ask any of these things, because none of the answers really matter, and he respects the silence too much. Besides, Keenser hardly seems the type to branch into exposition. Maybe Roylans are one of those odd species that live solely in the present, with no philosophical interest in the dealings of the past or future. That would still be interesting to discuss, but not now, when they’re tired and hungry and quiet.

When Keenser finishes eating, Khan’s still going. When Khan finishes, Keenser still doesn’t make any move to leave. Khan doesn’t either. They sit there, basking in the isolated warmth, depleted energy reserves slowly slipping away. The blanket wrapped around both their shoulders feels better the tighter in they huddle. The purring Keenser breaks into is lilting and soothing, and it lulls Khan into a safety he isn’t used to.

He’s decided by now that Keenser doesn’t expect anything out of him. That’s more than he could’ve asked for. 

Somehow, they wind up sleeping there, draped over one another. Keenser’s body is like a furnace, one that Khan’s treasures, and when the fire eventually dies, he clutches tighter to the warmth in his arms to weather the growing darkness.


	7. ~

When the morning comes, Khan’s clutching Keenser like a pillow. They’re spooned together in front of the burned-out cinder box, and the blanket’s twisted in their legs. Khan’s eyes sting when they’re exposed to the air, but he keeps them open anyway, thin slits to peer at the rocky ledge in front of him. 

Keenser’s facing the other way and breathing deeply, probably asleep. Purring slightly. Khan’s gut reaction is to pull away and pretend this never happened, hope Keenser was never aware of it, but he holds himself at bay—what need does he have for shame? Keenser’s body is a swell of heat, and surely he deserves that. He deserves not to feel embarrassment over foolish things. Who would Keenser tell, anyway? And if he did, what would it matter?

So Khan schools himself under control and lies where he is and uses Keenser for warmth, deserving that more than anything. He would’ve rather been stranded on a sauna planet than this. Preferably still with an unassuming native guide to bring him about. He can use information and assistance, so long as he’s in control. He still can’t believe he found someone so very uninterested in using him back. 

He squeezes Keenser tighter and wedges his chin over Keenser’s shoulder, spiked sides pleasantly dulled against his cheek. Nothing on Keenser is sharp, just smooth, dusty and shadowed in the darkness of the room. Khan can feel and hear Keenser’s heartbeat: a steady, mortal reminder that he isn’t really _alone_.

Wasn’t he insisting otherwise just last night? Khan’s legs shift, one hiking over Keenser’s, idly wrapping around, the collected fabric bustling between them: more fire of friction and helpful insulation. The more he wraps himself around his sleeping companion, the deeper his feelings curl with him, and the more he starts to wonder. 

He’s... _confused_ by his own feelings, and that isn’t easy to admit. It’s just that he’s still a _man_ , a superior one or not. And he’s been alone for a very, very long time. And he always did like talented, unique things, and no one’s ever quite wormed into his life the way Keenser has, so quietly and easily. Not someone manipulative and scheming or violent or difficult, nor someone too nice for Khan to believe or accept. Just someone neutral and pragmatic and undeterred by the cutting wind around them. Khan... admires that.

Khan admires anyone who can survive _alone_ like this, and that thought makes him hyper aware of just how alone he is himself, how he’s been alone for _centuries_.

His confusion mounts, and he tells himself it doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter._

He’s Khan Noonien Singh and he can want whatever he likes. He can identify with a backwater, lesser-known Federation species. He can be attracted to a Roylan. His body is young, virile, and he is a _human_ : he has needs, yearnings, basic, animal urges that cannot be denied simply because his mind might seem to dominate everything else. And so what if that arises for the first person in _more_ than three hundred years who hasn’t treated him like a monster and who’s shown a glint of potential?

Keenser shifts in his arms, still sleeping, still purring, just lengthening, legs kicking straight between Khan’s. Khan breathes out along Keenser neck and wonders how long he can stay like this. The floor is stiff and unforgiving, but as soon they move, he’ll have to give up his heater. 

Or maybe Keenser will wake up and not want to go anywhere at all, will simply roll over, stare up at Khan, and come to the same conclusions. ...Or maybe he’d go on having little to no reaction. Maybe Roylans are asexual. Khan’s not sure how he would deal with that. 

The mere thought that he’s contemplating it over a veritable rock-person is amusing, and his snort makes Keenser stir. Keenser shifts again, then rolls onto his back, forcing Khan to shuffle away and let his limbs fall aside, relenting his grip. Keenser stares over at him, and Khan wonders what happens to Roylan eyes when they sleep; do the stocks recede? Do the sockets close? He should’ve looked. Keenser stares at him harder, and Khan merely stares back, accepting the challenge. 

Then Keenser pushes past him, up to sitting, and reaches for another food kit. More dates—maybe that’s all Roylans eat. Maybe it’s all that grows on this world, or all that’s delivered. Khan stays lounging on the floor and watches, too stiff to bother moving before there’s a need.

When Keenser holds a date out to him, Khan makes a split second decision. Information gathering; that’s all it is. Khan does push up on one elbow. He leans forward to catch the tip of the date in his teeth, eyes flickering up to gauge Keenser’s reaction. But there isn’t any. Keenser simply watches him while he licks up the side of the date and plucks it from Keenser’s fingers with only his mouth so close to Keenser’s skin, licking his lips as soon as he’s swallowed the last bite. Then it’s back to lounging on the floor, waiting to be fed again. 

Keenser’s gaze lingers, but there’s no more indication of... anything. A knot of frustration builds in Khan’s stomach—he was only testing the waters anyway. But he’s never been overlooked quite so thoroughly, not once he’s shown overt interest like that, and the next time Keenser just holds out the box. Khan pulls his own food from it and sighs. 

He says, “I suppose you don’t mind if I work on the shuttle again today.” Keenser doesn’t answer: familiar silence that’s become a ‘yes.’

They relight the fire as they eat, storing up for another hard day’s work. Keenser throws the blanket back around them.


	8. ~

The shuttle’s going to need a lot of work. A _lot_ of work.

He’s swearing over it, over the way a chewed-open wire shoots a flurry of sparks when the jolt Khan sent through the other side had nothing to do with it, and it sends a cascade of molten electricity onto his skin. Khan ignores the burn and turns the flow off, yanking the damaged wire out with enough force to shatter the socket. 

An error, of course. The panel has enough trouble without Khan adding more. He scowls, mostly to himself, and goes back to what he was doing—one problem at a time. The clippers in his hands are worn from overuse, dulled and difficult to use, but what they lack in dexterity, his hands make up for. He holds another wire just against the side of one exposed circuit, his other hand moving to—

He hears a step outside the shuttle, and his head jerks aside. He’s lying on his back, fiddling with the controls beneath the dashboard, trying to make this wreck into something salvageable. He can feel a short river on his head where oil’s leaked down and slithered through his hair, and there’s a mild plasma burn near his elbow that narrowly missed his neck. He’s had to strip away his coat and roll up his sleeves—the machinery could set it on fire, and though it’s cold as soon as he crawls out from where he is, where he is happens to be a pool of sweat and still-hot embers. This place is a hazard and a _mess_.

When Khan doesn’t leave the shuttle—he recognized the sound of those footsteps—Keenser’s feet come into view, custom shoes stepping in through the bolted-open door. Keenser kneels down, peering under the console, and Khan frowns. “It isn’t that late yet.”

“Help you,” Keenser grunts. He moves forward onto his hands and crawls into the tiny space Khan occupies. When he rolls onto his back, Khan has to press against the side to give room.

Then Keenser’s next to Khan, wrench in hand. His eyes quickly skim the layout, assessing the damage—maybe he can see through dim light as well as Khan can. Then he lifts his wrench to the socket Khan damaged, and he pries out the mess that’s left.

Khan watches Keenser just long enough to reconcile having _help_ , then turns back to his own part of the panel. This can’t be Starfleet regulated. Keenser must be self-motivated then, or at least allowed to shuffle his own assignments. Apparently, whatever else Starfleet had him working on wasn’t so vital. Apparently, Khan takes precedent.

Khan controls his smirk because he doesn’t know the extent of Keenser’s peripheral vision. He keeps his features cool and confident—more so than before he had company—and he focuses on his work. 

Because his mind is genetically engineered to be _better_ , he’s fortunate to be able to focus on more than one thing at once. He stares forward at his hands, but he wonders, not for the first time, how he’s going to get this shuttle away. The original plan was to steal it, of course. Hardly difficult, with only one little alien to stop him. But...

Now he can’t help but wonder: if he asked, would Keenser simply gift it to him?

He’s not yet sure where he’ll go. There are no terminals that connect well enough to Starfleet’s library or can conduct reliable scans to tell him of the surrounding planets. He doesn’t know what the traffic in the area’s like. Like so many things in his life, he’ll simply have to ride by the seat of his pants, as the saying from his time went. He’ll find somewhere, tucked out of sight of Starfleet, and there, he’ll formulate new plans and do whatever it takes to rescue his crew, and he’ll never, _ever_ let them go through what he did. 

Next time, when he lands on a new planet, he’ll be truly alone. He wonders most of all if he’ll find companionship like Keenser again. He’s not sure he’d trust anyone else to work on anything of importance with him. 

Keenser is helpful. Keenser knows what he’s doing. Together, the two of them get the navigation console up to working order. Or at least, what they think is working order. It’s not in nearly good enough shape to test yet. As Khan runs his long fingers over the dead dashboard, Keenser grunts, “Engines?” Khan looks down at him and nods; that’s a decent place to go next. 

They head to the back of the shuttle together, and they take turns doing runs for tools, and they squeeze into awkward places and pry away broken panels and fit on new sheets of metal. Khan brings Keenser boxes to stand on to reach the higher problems, and Keenser can crawl into conduits Khan would never fit in. Khan gets dirtier and dirtier, and Keenser never looked particularly polished for it to matter. They both sweat, and Khan finds, against all logic, that Keenser smells better the more he sweats. Perhaps the repairs won’t take so long, after all.


	9. ~

Another gourmet dinner in the supply room: protein squares and dates. Through the dancing flames of the lit fire-kit, Khan eyes the run-down Synthesizer; they could fix that, with time. If they weren’t so busy on the shuttle. Khan prioritized the shuttle, so Keenser did too. Perhaps if Khan prioritized better food, Keenser would follow.

Khan’s almost sure Keenser would follow. He trusts his instincts; they’ve always served him well. He’s always been a good judge of character, but then, the side of caution dictated as much; before this, he always judged them as bad. 

There’s nothing particularly bad about Keenser any way Khan looks at it, except, of course, for the lacking food choices. Khan’s survived much worse. 

Khan can’t help himself any longer and asks between bites of the thick, chewy square, “How long may I stay here?” He doesn’t say ‘can,’ because he _could_ stay as long as he wanted. ...But he doesn’t kill when it isn’t necessary, he has no means to take Keenser hostage, and there really is no point. He doubts it would come to a struggle, even if he asserted his presence, but he knows he doesn’t have to. 

Keenser confirms his character by pausing. He looks over at Khan, beady eyes rattling after a moment, just for a second: maybe something like the equivalent of a blink? There’s something about Keenser’s physiology, so _unique_ and artistic that Khan finds inexplicably interesting. In his usual slow, careful time, Keenser croaks, “Ever.”

Khan bobs his head in a sort of thank-you. Keenser must know the custom; he nods from time to time. Now he nods back; a pact has formed between them.

Khan returns to his square, and Keenser returns to staring at the fire, having finished his small meal. His arms rest on his knees, legs drawn up. Khan’s coat protects his back, the fire his front, Keenser one side. His body’s... adjusting. 

It isn’t so bad here. Not really. Better than a few places Khan can think of. Even if he has no desire to stay, it’s a comfort to know he has as much time as he needs. When Khan makes it through the rest of his rations, the dark crumbs still cling to his fingers, oily from the bonding agent that holds it so compactly together. He lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean, all decorum out the window. He’s lived in castles and he’s lived on the street, and he has no ingrained posturing in a place like this. He licks all the crumbs from his fingers, and he leans back against the shoulder-high crate behind him, unwilling to return to work just yet. 

Or bed. They never seem to stop working until they _have_ to eat, and by then, it almost seems too late to bother crawling back; Khan can feel his exhausted form pushing for sleep. He could power through it, of course, but he doesn’t see the rush. 

For once, _Keenser_ is the one to shift closer first. It makes less sense—Khan is no furnace, not like Keenser is. When Khan looks down at Keenser, Keenser looks right back at him, eyes locking, and Khan closes the infinitesimal distance; the sides of their legs and arms touch, both still facing the fire. Khan, having longer arms, is the first to reach back for the blanket; they might as well enjoy the warmth a bit longer. He brings it behind them and they wrap themselves up, sharing it between them, huddled for heat and dawdling with the fire. 

Keenser’s body is solid. It’s hard, yes, even through the clothes, but it isn’t cutting or forceful; all the edges are smooth and easy to meld into. Keenser’s head could lean on Khan’s shoulder, and they’d really fit like two puzzle pieces: no gaps for the cold air. But Keenser doesn’t. 

Khan lifts his hand instead, curiosity compelling him. Keenser is an engineer; surely he’d understand an appreciation for such a finely built vessel, whether it holds electricity or a soul. There’s something strangely mechanical in Keenser’s makeup, and that holds some form of comfort for Khan. He admires Keenser’s solidarity, Keenser’s compact frame and shell-like exterior. Maybe... like very few others... it could withstand the strain of an augment.

The soft pads of Khan’s fingers trace a single ridge on Keenser’s brow. Keenser’s eyes dart instantly up to the movement, but Keenser doesn’t stop him; Keenser doesn’t say a word. Khan doesn’t either. He follows the ridge out into the wing-like structure that frames Keenser’s face, and he strokes back slowly, encouraged when he isn’t stopped. 

Far from protesting, Keenser’s rocky mouth falls open and emits that deep purr that’s so unique to him: a strong, growling sound that builds in the little Roylan’s body, until Khan can almost feel the hard skin beneath his fingers vibrating. He strokes harder, oddly aroused by the movement, in the response—this is something new, something _stimulating_ —humans were boring anyway. Khan’s so enthralled in his own ministrations that he hardly notices Keenser’s hand move until it’s on his own thigh, stroking along the dark fabric of his pants. Khan’s eyes flicker down to it, breath sucking in—it’s been so _long_ , and he should ask himself if he’s really ready, if he really _wants_ this, right here on a dingy storeroom floor, with a strange little alien that’s barely said more than two words at a time to him. 

He doesn’t really articulate an answer, because he doesn’t have to; his body takes over for him. He drops his free hand onto Keenser’s, and he moves it slightly, curving it around the slope of his thigh, inside his open legs, thumb up against his crotch. He has a sharper intake of breath and holds it this time. The curve of his pants is already growing, a formidable bulge rising to meet the side of Keenser’s hand. 

Keenser’s wrist breaks free of his grip and shifts closer, the stony heel pressing right into the mound of Khan’s clothed cock. He grits his teeth and resist the groan that threatens to spill but certainly doesn’t stop Keenser, and Keenser, evidently encouraged, turns his hand to cup Khan fully, stubby fingers stretching to envelope the sides. Khan has to hold his hips back from thrusting forward. It feels sort of like grinding into a rock. To a lesser man, that might not be particularly appealing, but Khan likes and can take it _rough_. He doesn’t mind if there’s a little bit of pain, so long as the stimulation’s worth it, and he can already tell it will be. There’s an almost palpable affection in Keenser’s touch, and Keenser starts to really fondle him, while Khan leans in to bring their faces closer. 

He means to try Keenser’s mouth, but he somehow ends up waylaid, stopping to run his tongue along a ridge that flows over Keenser’s cheek. Khan follows it from stem to stern, drinking in Keenser’s increased purr and rattling eyes, and then Khan’s tongue reaches Keenser’s lips and finds them, surprisingly, _soft_.

Keenser’s head darts forward and sucks in his tongue, enveloping him in a tight, wet heat that makes his head thin. It stifles Khan’s moan, and he tilts his head to let them sink deeper together, Keenser’s little mouth open to his wide lips. He lets one hand land on Keenser’s waist, the other still hovering over Keenser’s busy hand, and then Khan’s touching Keenser’s side too. He presses his hand into the fabric and maps out every nook and cranny in his mind, hungry to _see_ as well as _feel_.

They’re kissing like wildfire, and the next thing Khan knows, he’s being tossed to the ground with impressive strength, Keenser going with him, the two of them tangled together in the huddle of their blanket—Khan lands on top, one leg between Keenser’s, and there’s already a sizable lump that betrays Keenser’s interest. Khan can feel it against his stomach. He shifts up and shoves his hips down, gasping instantly at just how _hard_ Keenser’s body is—it really is like humping a rock—but the pressure gives him a sick rush, and he does it again. He grinds their crotches together, his cock only pulsing harder each time it rubs into Keenser’s. Wild images of strange alien cocks flitter through Khan’s head; what does a Roylan’s look like? He has no idea. With the rate they’re going, he’s not sure he’ll find out tonight. Maybe tomorrow. It feels big, so _big_ , and strong and solid—maybe it’s rippled and lined and ridged, maybe randomly or maybe spaced out, rimmed in even intervals. Or maybe it’s rounder like an even stone, and it would balloon out inside Khan and—

He loses his train of thought when one of Keenser’s firm hands grabs his head and wrenches him closer, smashing their mouths impossibly tight, another hand clutching at his waist. The strength in Keenser’s body is devastating. It would take all of Khan’s might to break free, but why would he want to? Once again, Keenser’s taking care of his needs. Keenser’s taken care of him so well. That shuttle would fit more than one person...

Keenser diverts both hands to Khan’s hips instead and grabs them both in a relentless grip. Khan’s held captive while Keenser bucks into him mercilessly, forcing a grunt out of Khan on every one, until he’s gasping and panting in between, barely able to hold himself up on his elbows. Even when Keenser’s large, heavy balls smash into his own delicate ones, the dizziness just makes him harder. His cock’s so engorged and swollen that it’s a wonder it hasn’t burst right out of his pants. He couldn’t take off his pants if he wanted too—he needs his hands to hold himself up, and Keenser’s grip on both fabric and flesh is completely unrelenting. For once, Khan’s powerless in a way he completely enjoys. All he has to do is _exist_ , and Keenser takes him to the height of pleasure, pounding up against him over and over, and Khan’s head hangs, sweat beading off his forehead, and Keenser starts licking at Khan’s neck, a slick, slippery thing that makes him shiver and feel deliciously _dirty_. His stomach clenches. 

His balls tighten, and he comes right in his pants, crying out and scrunching his face together, hips struggling to piston forward in Keenser’s grasp, desperate to aid in his own orgasm. Keenser just keeps holding him. Before Khan’s through with his own wave of ecstasy, Keenser makes a shrill, high pitched screech that nearly blacks out Khan’s eardrums, and a large wet patch stains over Keenser’s crotch, much larger than Khan’s. 

As soon as Keenser lets go, Khan falls down, hitting Keenser with a heavy gasp. Their crotches are both soaked, and the stench of sex is heavy in the air, Keenser’s natural musk intoxicating. The firelight washes over their sides to make them sweat even more profusely. 

Khan would almost be content to fall asleep right here, except that he’d prefer to mull over his wealth of new decisions in the comfort of a bed.


	10. ~

Their bed awaits them, and it doesn’t feel quite as thin and lumpy as it did before. Khan discards his coat before he crawls inside, content to settle for the heat of Keenser’s body and the sanctity of the blankets. They layer on several and pull them up close, wrapping themselves in a cocoon, cuddling together in the very center of the mattress, a pillow shared between them. Khan curls his legs up to keep them level with Keenser’s; he doesn’t want his feet too far away—it’s about the warmth and the comfort.

Keenser’s beady eyes watch him through the darkness, glittering like metal. There’s so much about Keenser that Khan doesn’t understand. Biology, motivation, history. He... wants to stay and find out. 

He can stay as long as he wants. He wraps his arms around Keenser’s body, clinging to the back of Keenser’s shirt. As good as Keenser’s sweat smells, they’ll have to bathe tomorrow. Together, this time. Khan’s looking strangely forward to it.

Like a lot of things. 

Khan feels strange all over, but at peace, and that’s what matters. It isn’t something he’s used to, but it’s something he enjoys. Through the blackness that envelops them, he whispers, “I’ll have to leave sometime.” Because it’s weighing on him. Keenser must know; what else would a shuttle be good for? “There are... people... that I’ve left behind.”

“Crew?” Keenser asks. Even mumbled and soft as it is, it makes Khan’s back stiffen, his heavy eyelids darting up: all of him at attention. Keenser doesn’t say anymore, but it’s obvious that he knows. Khan should’ve guessed as much. 

“Did you always know?”

“No.”

Pausing, Khan tries, “You looked it up since I landed here.” An obvious thing. Any intelligent person would’ve run a background check on their new companion. Or at least, would’ve after they grew closer, or after Khan started on the shuttle. 

Keenser says, “Yes,” and Khan breathes out steadily. He has to reconsider things. But Keenser adds, “Doesn’t change,” and Khan isn’t so sure. It should, in reality, change _everything_.

Khan says stiffly, “I paid for my crimes.”

Keenser doesn’t reply. 

Khan shifts uncomfortably in the blankets but doesn’t let go. Perhaps for Keenser, it really didn’t change a thing. Keenser has acted the same towards him the entire time, save for the exception of their intimacy, something Khan started. Khan forces himself to be calm and not to growl when he murmurs, “My friends... my crew. They didn’t commit any crimes. But they’re being punished for it, held like property. And I... I need to help them.” His intentions are nothing new. Starfleet knows of them. They must be on file. But Starfleet doesn’t think he can do anything about it now, and Keenser should know better. 

Keenser murmurs, “Understand.” He understands. It’s the way Khan interprets it. Maybe Roylans have a history of oppression, or maybe just Keenser, Khan doesn’t know. Keenser must know everything Khan’s done—it’s all on record—all the atrocities he committed, the brutality in the name of ultimate _peace_ , even the recent destruction, all for a righteous cause. He had people to save. To avenge. He keeps waiting for Keenser to say something that’ll force him to go into that, to explain. 

Keenser’s hand lifts to Khan’s shoulder. Keenser’s fingers are short and firm and hard, and they stroke Khan’s flesh through the clinging fabric of his shirt. Keenser rubs him soothingly, pets him and tells him gently, “ _Sleep._ ” Khan puts his hand over Keenser’s, about to give in. 

Keenser could be instrumental in saving his crew. Keenser is smart, talented. Calming and raw. Keenser could be a valid _part_ of his crew. Maybe some day, one of these quiet nights, they’ll discuss that. 

For now, Khan contents himself with the acceptance. He curls tighter around his companion: two Federation misfits. He won’t leave right away, he thinks. Biologically, he’s young. He has time. He has... things to sort through. 

Another time. He’s spent and tried and more content than he should be. He cuddles up to the strange little man who’s taken him in, and he finally whispers, “Thank you,” as he lets himself drift off to sleep. 

Keenser holds him through the night, always _there._


End file.
